


I'll Give You the Stars

by ablondeweasley



Category: I'll Give You the Sun - Jandy Nelson
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - College/University, Art, Art School, Astronomy, Baseball, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-01
Updated: 2017-06-01
Packaged: 2018-11-07 13:35:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11060079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ablondeweasley/pseuds/ablondeweasley
Summary: What could have happened if Noah and Brian had met later, in college.





	1. Noah

**Author's Note:**

> So, since my English teacher's fucking amazing, instead of writing an essay on our class book "I'll Give You the Sun," (suggested by me ;P) we can do a number of creative projects. And one of them was "write fanfic." I'm not joking. Seriously, I love her! So this is the project I'm working on! I tried to mimic Jandy's amazing style in Noah, and then I tried to make Brian have his own voice as well. Also, I know nothing about college art classes, zilch about astronomy, and nada about baseball, so if something's off in any way, feel free to hmu, as always!

This is how it all begins.

With the put-puttering of Ziggy, Dad’s ancient rust-red mini van. (Like King Tut ancient; I’m not joking. And when I say rust-red, I’m not joking about that either. I’m not sure if there’s even a speck of the original paint job left; the car’s solely rust.)

Dad’s too big for the driver’s seat, and he’s hunched over the wheel, his knuckles white and face the color of some of the wild roses back home. (The roses of Lost Cove burst with more color than a year of sunsets, their fragrance so intoxicating that town lore claims breathing in their scent can cause you to fall in love on the spot.) The car definitely has never passed any smog checks ever, and the trail of soup-pea fog we leave behind hangs sharp and heavy in my nose.

If I’m Hansel, leaving acrid drops of heather-gray smoke instead of breadcrumbs, then Jude is Gretel. But she’s not here; she didn’t want to go to Auburn University, but left Dad and me behind to eat dust as she flew to London. (Jude doesn’t need wings, she has her hair, which is miles long and tangles everyone up in it. She’s also burning blue-bright right now, the hottest type of flames, since she’s completely in love with Oscar. When people fall in love they burst into flames, and Jude and Oscar’s love is hotter than a million suns.)

I’m clutching the second of my five suitcases to my chest, the one with all my sketchbooks. Us artists (ever since I got into AU, I officially became a member of the Artist Club) pour our heart and souls into our work, and without at least one sketchbook with me, I’d be lifeless. So you can imagine how many of them there are in the beaten leather bag. I can feel them throbbing as I press the suitcase tighter to my chest, beating for me, pumping blood and relief from my nose to my toes.

But even though Dad’s blasting an audiobook about Sharks (Dad and I bond over animals and the Discovery Channel; it’s kinda our thing), and my sketchbooks beat like African drums, I can feel the worry somersaulting in my gut.

I regret it all now, 19 is still way too young to leave home and go to college, especially since Jude’s a gazillion miles away and doesn’t need me any longer. (We’re not NoahandJude anymore, for her it’s JudeandOscar now.)

What if it’s all been a mistake? What if they didn’t actually like my art, but someone else’s that they mistook for me? What if when I get there I won’t fit in? What if when I get there no one will like me? What if they thought that I was some type of cool, wild tiger artist, but then they see me and I’m some ginger tabby? (SELF PORTRAIT: Tabby Looking into Mirror and Seeing Tiger)

But for the time being, Dad and I are stuck in Ziggy. Rusted, old, faithful Ziggy. (Mom always loved Ziggy; her theory was that since rust is what happens when air reacts with metal, that our car must be like 95% air now, and that when we’re in Ziggy we’re kind of in the sky, flying, or like a cloud.) 

Dad speeds up a bit, and the worry grows, thorns writhing and twisty up into my lungs and I can feel them pop and deflate like old party balloons as we fly ever closer to AU, and farther from Jude.


	2. Brian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baseball, space, and gayness. Fun, fun, fun!

I catch the 98er Sam sends my way easily, ignoring the slight stinging that burns through my glove. We’re out on the pitch, even though no one needs to warm up in this 103 degree weather, and Sam’s giving it all he’s got. Ever since I got into AU my coach has been drilling into me more than ever that college will be even harder than high school, the competition is way higher, and that I’m, quote on quote, “a little fish in a big pond now, not the other way around.”  
It’s cool I guess, that baseball got me into the school of my dreams. I’m less concerned about being “the Axe” here (that’s my baseball nickname) than about excelling as an Astronomy major.  
I’ve loved the stars ever since I was little.

No, as long as I can remember.

People think I’m weird for all the sleepless nights I’ve spent out in the field behind my house, with a telescope and a blanket, wishing on every shooting star, falling asteroid, and planet that I could see. I’d reach up and trace the constellations with my finger, gazing in awe at these poisonous balls of gas that burned so brightly that we can see them even millions of light years away.I loved the boundless freedom that yet lies out of reach. The struggle to exist and endure. The untainted unknown.

Space is everything, not just other galaxies and far off planets. Space is the tree I climbed as a kid, space is every piece of art you've ever seen, space is everything that happens in the universe including our little planet. Knowing that, not liking space would be crazy, so I never understood the other kids. 

Space makes me feel so small, and that’s a comfort, because despite all of the pressure I’ve endured as the son of a professor, the Axe, keeping…certain things under wraps, I know that no matter how badly I fuck up, it honestly doesn’t matter in the grand scheme of things.

I’m leaving for Auburn University tomorrow, the mountain of cardboard boxes and tape in my room a constant reminder. It’s not too far away, just four hours from home. I’ll be able to drive back and visit at least once a month.

Sam wipes at the sweat dribbling from the brim of his baseball cap, missing one bead that trickles slowly down to rest in the hollow of his collarbone in a way that goes straight to my gut. His tank top has been dangerously distracting today, and I have to wrestle my eyes back to the ball coming at me at fucking 99 mph.

Get a grip, Brian, I tell myself. Get these…feelings back down where they belong.

If anyone found out I was…you know, my dad would probably come at me with an actual axe, or maybe burn me at the stake like a witch. And even if that didn’t happen, I don’t know how my baseball friends and coach, and my scholarship and new school, would take it. 

I try not to look at anything but Sam’s hand, the ball, and my glove for the rest of our little practice. 

I fail.


	3. Noah

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> College, zombies, and the dolphin turned owl.

College is nothing like I expected. 

I don’t know what I expected, to be honest, but anything but this shining glass castle full of people who are either caffeine-craving zombies, their eyes falling out of their sockets and their skin peeling off their bones, or people with glow-in-the-dark smiles who greet everyone with “Good mornings” that drip honey. 

I don’t know what I expected from the classes or the teachers either, but definitely not middle-aged professors with salt and pepper hair and kind smiles who have so many students that they don’t even know me. It’s discouraging and encouraging all at once, because they aren’t watching over my shoulder and seeing me fail, but they aren’t praising me either.

The work we do is hard. My hand’s turned into a loose pile of rubble, and it fell off yesterday after going completely numb. My palm’s always black from the charcoal, and there’s permanent paint splatters on and under my nails. The five second speed sketches we do are honestly the worst, and after I always feel like an artichoke who’s let down myself, the school, and my entire family. A thistle-head, that’s what I am. I don’t even know what art is. What’s a pencil? What’s a paintbrush? (SELF-PORTRAIT: Confused Artichoke)

Maybe I was right and I don’t belong here.

* * *

A teacher actually talked to me today. He came up to me, tapping my shoulder and peering over at my easel.

“Noah Sweetwine, right?” He’d asked, while I just sat there like a mute puppet with no words or creative ideas of my own. I somehow managed to nod yes while peering into his fathomless, kind blue eyes. If he were an animal, he’d be a dolphin. He’s always smiling and he’s got eyes like the ocean. “I’m Mr. Bismark,” he says. I know, I want to say, but I keep that in. “I had an idea that I feel like you might benefit from. You draw from life, right?” 

Yes, I nod again, because I do slink through shadows and stalker-y draw people around me. Especially beautiful boys. I have sketchbooks full of them. (Jude knows I’m gay, but that’s it. I can’t tell Dad or anyone else.) “Why don’t you take your sketchbook now, and instead of participating in the 5 second sketches, you and a couple other students go out on the quad and draw from life. You can draw other people that are out there, maybe nature. What do you think?” Mr. Bismark asks.

I don’t think he’s a dolphin anymore. He’s a kind old owl, wise and understanding. Thank you God for this escape! No more 5 second sketching? Praise the Lord! (I seem to have converted to Christianity in the past sentence. I wonder what Jude would think of my new religion. No, I take it back, I worship the Holy Bismark, who bestows freedom upon his mighty followers, his words ringing with power and truth.

“I’d like that,” I manage to say, because I’m Noah “Cool as Ice” Sweetwine. All I need is a James Dean lean, maybe a cigarette jutting out from between my lips, and a worn leather jacket ’til I reach absolute coolness. (But I would never smoke, because those are cancer sticks. “Suicide Sticks,” as Jude calls them, and she’s the coolest person I know so cigarettes do not equal cool.)

That’s how I end up in the quad with my sketchbook the next day, drawing the most beautiful boy of all.


	4. Noah

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The quad, ruby hair, trees rule the world, and Him.

It’s my third day in the quad, and so far it’s way better than five second sketching. All of it’s lazy, so perfect for me; Noah, your resident failing artist. I have a couple sketches of this one girl who had deep bags under her eyes and tall Uggs with wet tips from the morning dew that drenches the grass. She had red hair that made her look like a necklace pendant, with vibrant reds, oranges, yellows, even strands of pink and gold that came together and shone like rubies.  
There area couple pages of other people too, and of the fountain and bricks. But after two days of that I’m eyes half-lidded, shoulder slumped bored.

The quad is quiet today, empty. There are a couple of benches circling a fountain, everything made of red brick with spikes of pale green grass escaping through the cracks. A small grove of trees nearby, cradling a baby stream that gurgles along with the fountain. 

(People think that humans run the world, but they’re wrong. The trees do. They’re ancient, and have seen everything. Sometimes at night I can hear them talking to me, whispers of branches dancing in the wind and leaves falling like snow. The trees here are maples and sycamores, not like the ones back home at all.)

The quad is calm. Content. I absentmindedly sketch the way the water’s vomited out of the fountain, trying to capture the constant motion with quick, fluid strokes.

Then I notice him.

There’s a boy with a backwards baseball cap sitting with his knees curled into him, the edges of his sneakers digging into the mulch by the base of the tree roots. The tuft of hair that sticks out from underneath his faded hat is a bonfire of white light. His eyes are shadowed by long, blonde-tipped eyelashes that kiss his cheekbones when he blinks, and they’re such a light brown. Practically yellow, or copper maybe, and all splintered with green. 

He looks so peaceful, and everything around him is quiet; he’s got this whole Realm of Calm thing going on. Just looking at him, I feel supernaturally relaxed, like I’m left out butter.

This is cool. He’s totally cool.

There’s no one else around, which means no dynamic poses; oh well. But this boy.

It doesn’t seem like he’s going anywhere for a while, so I put my charcoal away and pull out some colored pencils.  
I start sketching, letting my eyes scan my subject and the page quickly, my fingers moving smoothly yet rapidly. I feel like a map maker, documenting the way to an ancient, secret treasure. Something about this boy seems magical.

A heat storm, way intense, is whipping through me, despite the Realm of Calm emulating from him. Or maybe because of him.The more I sketch, the more my fingers turn into marshmallows, and then marshmallow fluff, and I’m pretty I’ve been hijacked and am no longer at the brain controls.

By the time I’ve finished coloring him, my head’s fallen off and has rolled to the base of the fountain, and I feel like I’m having an out of body experience, watching myself sketch the beautiful boy.

I look down at my page, and to my delight, those squinted kaleidoscope eyes on the page almost give me the same feeling as the real ones do, and I feel like I’m falling.(SELF-PORTRAIT: Falling Through A Kaleidoscope) The wind’s racing past my ears in a way that dulls the noise of everything around me, and it seems like it’s just me and him.

I want to know what his name is. What’s his major? His he an artist too? Does he play baseball, like his faded jade green cap suggests? What year is he? But most of all I want to draw him again, until I can get everything just right. I’ve run out of time, though. Maybe he’ll be here tomorrow? I pray to God-no, not God, the Holy Bismark, that he will be.

I get up from the creaky wooden bench that had been my temporary artist’s chair, carefully folding the sketchbook closed. If Jude was here, she’d make fun of me. “You’re being a broken umbrella, Noah. Man up. Go talk to him, not just stare and sketch like some creepy stalker chicken,” she’d say. But Jude isn’t here, she’s halfway across the world with Aw-scah, buhning down Lun-dun, mate. (That’s my scathing British accent.)

I think about the boy again, and my whole body wobbles like jello. I can’t tell what animal he is yet. Hopefully I’ll find out soon.


End file.
